


Couldn't wash the echoes out

by purple_cube



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_cube/pseuds/purple_cube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She tells him that she is fire and he is ice, and that this is a one-off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couldn't wash the echoes out

 

It is raining in Rome on the day that Selina can’t shake the feeling that she’s being followed. The umbrella doesn’t help as she tries to survey her surroundings, and she lowers and collapses it shut as she approaches the family-run hotel that has become home in recent weeks. One last visual across the street corner doesn’t throw up anything suspicious, so she turns and enters the reception.  
  
It’s dusk, and she murmurs _buona sera_ to the elderly owner behind the desk as she walks past, earning a friendly nod in return. They don’t ask questions so long as she pays a few days in advance, an arrangement that suits her just fine.  
  
Her room is on the first floor, tucked away in a narrow corner. Her attention still flickers behind as she slips the key into the door, and it isn’t until she pushes forward that she focuses ahead, checking for any uninvited guests inside the room before she even considers shutting the door, her only means of escape.  
  
She waits for the click of the lock behind her, but it never arrives. Instead, a foot clatters against the other side of the wood, blocking the entrance. She tightens her grip on the umbrella and whirls around as the door creeps open slowly to reveal her visitor.  
  
His hair is dripping wet from the rain and he reaches up to brush thick strands from his forehead. She retreats a little, and he takes this as a cue to enter the room fully, clicking the door shut behind him. She wants to speak, to make some snide comment about Bruce Wayne rising from his grave, but no words form in her mouth.  
  
He watches her approach, his expression neutral. She doesn’t think about what she is doing, not until her arm is already pulled back and she has a split second to see the panic cross his face. And then her fist lands right where she wants it to, and the pain sears through her bones as well as his. The force of the punch twists his upper body away from her and up against the door, and he raises his hand to hide the point of impact.  
  
When he turns to look at her again, yes, there is hurt and anger, but it is the resignation that surprises her most.  
  
“I deserved that,” he admits.  
  
The corner of his lip is bleeding, and she reaches up to wipe the red liquid away, but at the last moment changes her mind. Instead, she leans in to absorb the blood with her lips. Her eyes are closed but she can hear his gulp of air.  
  
When she looks at him again, he seems conflicted. His gaze drifts to her lips and then up again; his returning expression holds no such confusion. He pulls her close, pressing his mouth against hers.  
  
He lets her fuck him into the sheets, slow and long, taking everything she needs from him before giving in to his own desires. It’s not at all how she expected, but then again, nothing about Bruce Wayne _is_ these days.  
  
Later, she tells him that she is fire and he is ice. That he was born rich and she most certainly was not, that bats and cats are not suitable companions. That this is a one-off, and he’d better not get used it.  
  
He is lying on his front, next to her as she rests on her side and faces him. He reaches across to brush her hair behind her ear, and she wonders how long it’s been since she’s let anyone do that to her.  
  
“We’re not that different, you and I,” he says quietly.  
  
She wants to scream at him that they _are_ , that there never will be a happily ever after for people like her. That she was shattered into a million pieces a hell of a long time ago, and that she had to put those pieces back together all by herself. That the new version most definitely does not match the picture on the cardboard box, the picture that he has of her.  
  
But the look in his eyes stops her.  
  
It’s a look of hope, and of faith, and it’s something that she hasn’t seen for a really long time. Not directed at her, anyway.  
  
Maybe Bruce Wayne – or the Batman, or whoever this man is now – _is_ naïve enough to think that she can be his happy ending. Or maybe tomorrow he will see the truth as she does, and walk away, or perhaps she’ll be the one to do the walking. But in this moment, under the weight of _that_ look, she wishes it could be true, that he is right to say that they are not so different.  
  
And then he pulls her closer, his lips warm on her skin and not like ice at all. She stops thinking about tomorrow and lets the here and now encircle her.

 


End file.
